Beginning of the End of a Beginning
by PhoenixDragonDreamer
Summary: Amy buried her husband of sixty plus years on a cold, blustery day that smelled of burning tires, hot oil and exhaust.


**Warnings:** Angst, Horror, Dark!Fic, Speculation, Character Study, Introspection, Spoilers for 7.05, Surprise!Twist  
**A/N:** Originally this was to be written for **who_contest**'s Beauty Prompt, but as we can see I overshot the word limit by...a _lot_. In the end though, I still liked the fiction and have done some minor tweaks to it, though the original premise/content is very much the same. As always, this fiction is comprised of overly angsty-thinky ramblings (and waaaayyyy too much speculation). Wandery-blithery within (youse has been warned) with more than a touch of horror and despair to sweeten the 'bzuh?!'. I (again) am at a loss as to where this hailed from, much less any inkling of its coherence, as rough as it is. As per usual, mostly unbeta'd and written in one go, so please forgive any mistakes and/or blatant vagueness. I apologize for any repetition, misspellings, sentence fails, grammatical oh-noes and general horridness. Unbeta'd fic is overly-thinky/blithery and unbeta'd.  
**Disclaimer(s): **_I do not own the scrumptious Doctor or his lovely companions. That honor goes to the BBC and (for now) the fantastic S. Moffat. The only thing that belongs to me is this fiction - and I am making no profit. Only playing about!_

* * *

Amy buried her husband of sixty plus years on a cold, blustery day that smelled of burning tires, hot oil and exhaust.

She laid him to rest almost 11 years before he was even born. He was tossed back in time 11 years before he could be considered middle-aged, lived a full and wondrous life only to die 18 years before the concept of cellphones were even thought of – just shy an extra 2 years before the turn of the century.

Televisions were coming equipped with devices known as 'remote controls'. VCRs were all the rage, car phones were just becoming a fad, beepers were for doctors and lawyers (but only the really expensive kind), and the world-wide web was a dream years into the future.

It had taken awhile, adjusting to that life. It had taken a lot of forgetting, a lot of forgiving and a struggle to see the beauty in a world that was destined to eat itself in a slow way, while rushing forward to that time when it could consume itself at a breathless pace – ever, ever distracted from its own mortality.

Rory found the adjustment easier. He always had. Rory adapted so well to sudden, jarring changes – and yet, while he was adapting, he was also _enjoying_. The sweetness of the slower pace, the simpler ideas and ways of the past suited his temperament. He found few frustrations within it, few limitations – just making his amazing, brilliant way through life in such a Rory-fashion, she was compelled to follow. It was more of a brisk walk than running – but then, they never really ran anymore.

Amy's resentments had grown under that slower slide of the future. She hid it well, burying herself in work and journals and projects galore; leading revolutions, toppling faceless empires and doing what she did best: saving the world (as small as it was now) and remember-remembering-remembering. She remembered now – Rory's crooked smile, his soft laughter, his gentle surety next to her willful assurance (and there was a difference, there surely was). He was everything she had not been and made what little she was so much _more_ than she could have ever dreamed by herself.

He had been her shining light in the dark. The beacon that guides softly in the night. The call of the universe from right beside her. He had _been_ her universe. He had been everything. And now he was no more. He'd had at least another five years easy, but –

A simple drug. One not perfected for another ten years, administered in ignorance of the side-effects. One he could have told his doctors about in his sleep (and likely did only to be dismissed as a doddering old codger), just one simple mistake was what did him in. And Amy saw, truly _saw_, where the Doctor's blundering had cost them everything. Something so _simple_ ended something so beautiful. And it wasn't fair. It wasn't right.

She corrected the doctor who ordered the dose (in the firmest, most permanent way she could find) barely a day later. And as he choked without oxygen (just like her poor, gentle, beautiful husband had), she looked into the man's green-grey eyes and finally understood what she needed to do. Who she was meant to be.

She contemplated the wrenching irony of her future while she buried her past. The day itself a perfect testament to the agony and rage that had finally coalesced into vengeful fury. She hated that. Rory like the smell of rain and flowers and spring. But she could relate to the feel and taste of the morning, even as it made her bitter: it was the taste of an ending that was actually a beginning aiming for another ending. It was the first sip of freedom she didn't want, to take on a task she very much looked forward to.

Disabling John Hart 1 year, eight months and two days after that day of silence was not as hard as it seemed it would be. He was an arrogant twat that brought the sound of home, even as he reeked of torn timelines far away from that home, awash in ignorance of where he came from. Not that he would have cared. He seemed a man who didn't care about much – though she recognized the drive, the need for revenge not sated and the seeking of the same. He never saw the hit coming, never even expected it. She was a harmless old lady after all. One of thousands.

She made sure he wouldn't remember though. She knew just enough to be dangerous (a lesson he would sadly be lacking when he awakened), but she could learn more than enough to be deadly. Always was a quick study, Rory's Amelia – with her uniquely singular focus, her intellect and absorption of her chosen subjects – she was stunning. She reveled in the delicious ironies she stumbled across, using them to cut her way through to the woman she was born to be. Not the special girl she thought she had been, but the singular woman she now knew she was.

Soon, she was ready. Not soon enough for her liking, but with the timeframe she had been aiming for, that in itself would have to be enough. The time had come though, where 'has to be enough' was no longer suitable. It was all or nothing.

Amelia Pond died two years after her husband Rory had passed. She was still breathing, but she made sure (to all intents in purposes) that she was found 'dead' by all those that mattered. All those that mattered; well…they mattered to _themselves_, even as they were of no consequence to her. They weren't there when her Rory died. No one was. They both died that day and no one came to honor their passing. No one came, so she became no one.

It didn't mean she stayed that way.

Dressed in mourning black, hair pulled into a tight wrap and armed (figuratively, literally) with Time-Agent tech, Amy went looking for the ones you could only see out of the corner of your eye. A memory and a curse and everything she needed to end where it all started (the universe pouring into her head). She found the Silence (easy-peasy), and promptly bent them to her will, toppled their meager empire to foster a new religion. She blazed across Time with a rage that was as fiery as her hair had once been. She burned the unjust and crippled the weak. She knew it wouldn't take long. It never did. _His_ endless need to meddle was what started it all. And with the memory of a girl who had lived three lifetimes, she knew where she had gone wrong before. Where she had erred.

She would not make those mistakes again. She was determined – and a determined Amelia was a formidable one: even her long-lost love was well versed in that lesson. He found it exasperating, amazing, dangerous and…beautiful.

_Just like he had been._

She never thought of him anymore.

_But when she saw him (so young, so _new_, ignorant of his future) she would soak that in and dream and dream and –_

She never cried anymore.

_She let the blood of her enemies weep for her._

She had forgotten the dreams of her Raggedy Man and his Box of the bluest-blue and all that it had meant.

_Once upon a time, long, long ago when her name was a fairytale name and he was her Imaginary Friend._

She turned her rage and pain to the stars and laughed when she read of how 'his kind' all burned and burned and burned and of course, _he_ had done that.

_The Oncoming Storm. The Beast. The Destroyer of Worlds._

He doesn't get older. His face changes, but he will always, _always_ be the same. Unless she stops him. Makes damned sure her armies meet his and end it all in an inferno of righteous might and when he asks '_Why?'_, she wants to be there. She wants to show him her face. Tell him her name –

_Then what's his name?_

Let him know what his legacy had started. See his ending in her eyes. See him choke on his own destructive power.

She was determined the Doctor would never make it to Trenzalore.

This time…_this_ time she would get it right.


End file.
